


Decisions Were Made

by charcuterie



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: AND SO DOES BEN SOLO, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst with a Happy Ending, Ben Solo is a Mess, Big Boy Ben Solo doesn't need any favors, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Plot? what even is a plot, Porn with Feelings, Rey drinks too much, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, and also a nerd, because she is sad, brief mention of Anne Rice becAUSE I LIKE ANNE RICE OKAY, idk where this came from tbh, what's a little angry sex between friends
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:07:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22042294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charcuterie/pseuds/charcuterie
Summary: "Never pegged you for an Anne Rice fan," she points out, her breaths starting to come quick and hard."What, just because I usually gravitate to science fiction, that means I can't also enjoy some cryptid homoerotica? Psh. Never pegged you for a sexist."--In which Rey makes unhealthy decisions due to Christmas Melancholy but her BFF Benjamin is there to help her pick up the pieces.
Relationships: Kylo Ren/Rey, Rey/Ben Solo, Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 27
Kudos: 128





	1. Chapter 1

Rey swims toward consciousness through a thick, murky haze, and when she finally opens her eyes, she is relieved to see the familiar ceiling of her tiny efficiency apartment. She sits up rapidly—and lays back down immediately.

 _Ohhhh, billy_.

She’s still a little drunk and the first throbs of her hangover are pulsing ominously back and forth behind her eyeballs. She closes her eyes against an overwhelming wave of nausea.

There’s music playing in her kitchen. No, _there is someone in her kitchen_. She hears them moving around—and she hears a telltale sizzle.

_OK, I don’t care who’s in my kitchen. They’re making bacon. Also, the Advil is in the kitchen. And the vodka._

Wait…is that “Mo' Better Blues”?

Welp, if there _is_ an intruder in the kitchen, it’s the kind of intruder who cooks bacon to Gordon Webster, which means that it’s definitely Ben. Rey’s anxious chest deflates as sweet relief pours through her, and she finally works up the nerve to crack her eyes open against the sheets of horrible, horrible sunlight pouring in through her window.

Yup, it’s Ben. Cooking eggs and bacon. Humming along to the music in a mindless falsetto. Puttering around in his boxers. He looks nice mostly naked. Rey smiles lazily at the sight, then freezes.

_WAIT._

_What?_

_Oh no._

_Ohhh no no no no._

She leans back to slow the spinning in her head. _Oh God._ She looks down at herself. This is _his_ tee shirt. She can tell because it’s the older-than-dirt, faded black thing with the words VADER WAS FRAMED on the front that he wears _all the time_ like the adorable fucking _nerd_ he is.

_Oh God. What did we—? Did we—? What’s going—_

“Stop it. Get it together,” she whispers to herself, digging fists into her eyes. She takes a deep breath, squares her shoulders, and sits up.

Ben pauses mid-falsetto with a spatula full of scrambled eggs hovering over a plate. He reaches over to silence the music on his phone. A handful of long, long seconds stretch out between them as they stare at each other from across the room. She watches his Adam’s apple bob slowly, down—up—down.

“I made breakfast,” he says unnecessarily, shrugging a shoulder heavily in the direction of the plates and the frying pan. His face is carefully blank.

She can tell she's going to need fortification for this conversation, so she crawls out of bed.

She shuffles slowly to the cabinet next to the fridge. Pulls out a bottle of pills and dry-swallows four of them. Opens the fridge. Its cold draft informs her that she is not wearing any pants.

_Oh, well._

She retrieves some tomato juice and sets it on the counter. Grabs the bottle of vodka and a shot glass out of the cupboard. Fills a glass with ice. Pours a shot of vodka into the glass. Pours herself a shot and drinks it. Pours another shot into the glass. Splashes in some tomato juice for color. Reaches up to put away the vodka, thinks better of it, and pours herself another shot.

She leans her hips against the counter, her pounding head dangling forward against the cupboard door.

“What day is it?” She rasps out, not turning around. She’s hoping that no one will answer, that she’ll turn around to an empty kitchen, that this was all a terrible, terrible stress-dream and not a terrible, terrible mistake.

“Friday,” Ben says. Despite his flat tone, she can hear the anger thrumming underneath it, and it fills her with confusion and guilt.

 _Fuck_. “Where is my phone.” _Maybe it will be in the fridge so I won’t have to turn around?_

“Here, on the island,” Ben says.

 _Double fuck._ She turns around, shot glass in hand, not raising her eyes from the countertop and certainly _not_ observing Ben’s acres of smooth, bare skin just a handful of inches away. She's close enough to feel the warmth radiating off of his body in soothing waves. She sets her teeth together and shakes her head to dispel the sudden, strong urge to nudge her nose into the divot of his collarbone.

She lifts her phone and calls work. She raises it to her ear just as it’s answered by the HR secretary.

“Buenos dias,” she rasps, and then drinks the shot, gulping loudly. “It’s Rey. Yes, _hello_ , Kaydel. Not gonna be in today. K. Bye.” Kaydel's still yammering shrilly on the other end as she hangs up.

The vodka is just starting to seep in, and she finally has enough liquid courage to look Ben in the eye. He’s leaning against the island, hands tucked under his armpits, glaring at her solemnly without an ounce of his usual self-consciousness. She drops her eyes back to the countertop.

“Benjamin?”

“Yes, Rey?”

 _Just rip the band-aid off._ “Did we…” she coughs. “Did we—have sex? Last night?”

An excruciating silence stretches out between them. She sneaks a look from under her eyelashes, and sees his mouth working angrily, like he’s rolling a razorblade around his tongue and trying not to get cut.

“No, we did _not_ ,” he says coldly, eyes dark with some heavy emotion she can’t identify. “But it’s _great_ that you think I’m the kind of person who’d fuck you when you’re black-out drunk.”

 _Yeeeeesh_ , that sarcasm could strip paint off a Humvee. But she’s so overwhelmed with relief that she just barrels on to other questions.

“Oh. Uh, good,” she says lamely. “That’s…good to know. Can you tell me where my pants are?”

To Rey’s relief, Ben tucks his chin into his chest and redirects his stare at the floor instead of at her. “Well, you knocked yourself out on the ice last night, and then puked everywhere.” He stops talking and chews the inside of his cheek.

“Go on.”

“So, I got an Uber and took you home.”

“How did you get me to my floor? The elevator’s been busted since…forever.”

His head tips back up and he blinks at her in confusion, as if he can’t understand why this question is even on the roster. “I carried you up the stairs…?”

She gulps. _I am a world-class piece of shit._ “That’s...impressive.”

“Not really. But thanks, I guess,” he responds irritably, ducking his head to squint into her bloodshot eyes. “Vodka is kicking in, I see.”

“Yes. Yes, it is. Thank God.” She closes her eyes and nods sagely as the room begins to sway, comfortingly, like a cradle. “Moving on. Why am I in your shirt? _You_ should be in your shirt. _And_ your pants. _You_ should be in your shirt _and_ pants. You can’t just wander around mostly naked. It’s…” she waves a hand around, “Distracting.”

“Well not to name any _names_ , but you puked all over both of us. So I took the liberty of throwing our stuff in the wash.”

“Wait,” she squeaks. “You took my clothes off while I was unconscious??”

He scratches the back of his neck, clearly uncomfortable. “Well…yes. Yes, I did do that.”

“And you put me in _your_ shirt?” Rey tugs at the edges of the very much oversized shirt and looks down at it in horror.

“What’s wrong with my shirt?” He demands, scowling.

“Well, why didn’t you put me in one of _my_ shirts?” Rey waves a hand at her dresser across the room.

“Because I felt weird pawing through your shit!” Finally, _finally_ he blushes. It makes her feel marginally better that she isn’t the only one horribly embarrassed about all this. “I mean, for all I know you’ve got that thing packed with—with—fuckin’ _dildoes_ and shit!”

Rey snorts before she can stop herself. Then the corner of Ben’s mouth twitches. Then they burst out laughing.

“I mean, for the record—” Rey begins, wiping moisture out of her eyes, “I totally do have dildoes and shit in there.”

“So what I’m hearing is, ‘Thank you, Ben, for making the right call’,” Ben is giving her a warm, lopsided grin that simultaneously melts her insides and twists the knife in her heart.

She looks down at her feet, biting her lip.

_So. First he found me passed out on a bench. Then I puked all over him. Then he carried my stupid ass up three flights of stairs, cleaned me up, and put my clothes in the wash. Then he literally gave me the shirt off his back and cooked me breakfast._

“Thank you, Ben,” Rey whispers, staring at her feet so he won’t see the tears welling in her eyes.

“You’re welcome,” he answers, just as softly.

_Excuse me while go take a bath with a toaster, because I am never, ever going to be able to pay him back for this._

She finally raises her head to find that he’s gone back to the stove. He turns around and wordlessly hands her a plate of bacon, toast, and scrambled eggs, which she alights upon like a locust.

“These eggs are delicious,” she comments muzzily with her mouth full. “You make good eggs.”

He _mm-hmms_ distractedly, focusing on his own plate.

She inhales the food in record time and sets the plate on the island, trying desperately to ignore the drunken wobbling around the edges of her vision. She feels her head sinking slowly, down, down, to rest against the cool countertop.

“Rey,” Ben says quietly, setting his plate down. “You should go back to bed.”

“Uh huh.”

“Get some sleep, and when you’re better…”

“Uh huh?”

“When you’re _sober_ ,” he corrects himself, “We’re going to have a talk.”

“Uh huh.”

He gently pulls her up by the shoulders and helps her weave across the room to her bed, where she crawls under the covers, pulls a pillow over her face, and falls asleep in seconds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ "Mo' Better Blues" by Gordon Webster ](https://youtu.be/MjVZLUqnikQ)


	2. Chapter 2

When Rey cracks her eyes open next, Ben is sitting across the end of the bed, leaned back against the wall and reading a book. She can tell he’s been there for a while. He’s got his jeans and flannel back on, which smell faintly of her laundry detergent.

“You’re still here,” she croaks in surprise.

He starts a little at her voice, then leans his head back against the wall. “I am,” he says simply.

They consider each other for a moment. The afternoon sun is sifting through the window, picking out facets of walnut brown in his dark hair that she’s never noticed before. He sets his book in his lap with a ragged sigh, looking pale and drawn. Those ever-present shadows are under his expressive brown eyes, which are resting in hers with a bone-deep worry so _tender_ , her heart constricts with self-loathing all over again.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, her eyes welling up, and thinking _this is it, this is when he walks out my door and never walks through it again._

He sucks in a breath and holds it for a second, seeming to gather his emotions. “Are you sober, now?”

She briefly considers lying, but she knows she deserves every bit of the ass-reaming she’s about to get, so she nods.

His eyes fall and he chews the inside of his lip. “You could’ve frozen to death last night. Easily. I thought you were dead, when I found you.” He pauses to let that sink in. “I thought you were _dead_ , Rey.”

Tears start to leak out the corners of her eyes. “I’m so sorry, Ben. I didn’t…”

“Let me finish,” he cuts her off, holding up a hand as his face pales with anger. “I wasn’t _looking_ for you. It was an act of _God_ that I found you at all. I was just happening by, with some—some fucking _groceries_ , because it’s not like you _called_ , or _texted_ , or let me _know_ , in any way, shape, or _form_ , that you fucking needed _help_ , you just—” He abruptly hurls his book across the room, and she cringes down into the pillow as it smashes into the pot rack with a head-splitting crash.

“You just…bought a bottle of rum,” he trails off for a second, looking into the middle distance, a helpless look in his eyes. His hands rest limply, palms-up, in his lap. He shakes his head in disbelief. “You just...got a bottle of rum, and wandered around the city, alone. At night. You drank the _entire bottle_ and passed out on a fucking park bench in the dead of winter and you weren’t even wearing _boots._ God _damn_ it, Rey! How the _fuck_ am I—”

He cuts off and hunches forward, gripping the bridge of his nose with trembling fingers.

“You know what? Never mind the cold. Even though it was only _fifteen fucking degrees_ , mind you,” he goes on savagely. “You could’ve been mugged—” he starts counting off on his fingers and she squeezes her eyes shut in shame. “Raped. Murdered. Kidnapped. Who the fuck _knows_ what else. I was about to call an ambulance when you woke up. Then you bashed your head on the sidewalk and I almost called an ambulance again. Spent the night checking you every five fucking minutes because I was fucking _terrified_ I did the wrong thing.” He trails off, and she finally works up the courage to crack open her eyes.

He’s sitting on the edge of the bed now, elbows on his knees and face in his hands, fighting to control his breathing.

_Oh shit._

He’s—is he _sobbing?_

It only lasts a handful of agonizing seconds before he gets a grip on himself with noticeable effort. With a final heave, he drops his hands and lets his head sag forward.

“Ben?” Rey says in a whisper. “I’m really, really, really sorry. Okay? I’m _sorry_. And I _promise_ —”

“You need to _talk_ to me,” he snaps back, voice shaking. “You’ve been spiraling _hard_ for, like, a _month_ now, and I _need_ you to tell me what’s going on.”

 _But I don’t want to_ , she thinks blankly as she stares down at the blanket. _If I tell you, then you won’t be my hiding-place any more. It’ll sit between us and poison everything._ Rey heaves a shuddering sigh and leans her head down onto her knees.

“Rey,” he pleads. His coffee-brown eyes are wet, and it's _wrenching_ her apart. “Please. Talk to me.”

“I don’t want to,” she finally admits in a whisper. A hurt look crosses his face before he quickly hides it away.

“I don’t want to open all that shit back up again<" she clarifies. "I worked _so hard_ to—to put it in a box, to put it away…I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” she continues, staring at her toes where they peek out under the hem of his shirt, “but I don’t have… _people_. You’re the first person I’ve kept around since…fuck, I don't even know. Other than Finn. But he doesn’t count. I mean, he basically held me hostage until I let him be my friend.”

She tips her head back and stares at the ceiling. “This isn’t my first sharp, downward spiral, you know. In fact, spiraling is more normal than ‘normal’ for me. In _fact_ , I don’t even know what normal _is_ for me, because as long as I can remember, I’ve been this way.”

“What way?”

Ugh, her throat is so thick that she can’t talk.

“ _What_ way, Rey?”

“I don’t know?” _Ah fuck, here come the waterworks._ “Just—sad? And gray, and empty? All the time?” _Oh God, my nose is running like a faucet._ “And Christmas…Christmas is when I saw my parents die, and—”

“Hang on, you _what?_ ”

“Don’t—okay, look. I _promise,_ someday I will tell you all about it, but please, just _please_ , _don’t ask me to talk about it right now_. Just, long story short, my parents died a few days before Christmas, and I saw it happen, and now I hate Christmas. Ta-da. The end. Okay?”

Ben's mouth works against itself for a minute. “Okay,” he concedes, clearly not happy to let it drop. She can practically hear his mind buzzing with questions, but God bless the man, he doesn’t ask any of them.

“Okay. So. Christmas just takes my usual level of sad and empty and ramps it up to _super_ sad and empty and it’s just, it’s clockwork. Every year. November to February is just one, long, miserable trigger. That’s why I don’t get close to people, because people…get sick of my shit after a while, because I’m a fucking wreck, and honestly—and I’m not _trying_ to be a dick, here—but if I _had_ bit it last night, we would probably both be better off.”

“ _Don’t_ say that. Don’t you _dare_.” He points a finger in her face, his face white as a sheet.

“I’m just saying—”

“Yeah, well, _don’t_. Don’t say it. Do you have health insurance?”

She pauses, and then deciphers his line of thought. “I’m not getting medicated, if that’s what you’re saying.”

“You already _are_ medicated, Rey. Poorly. Seriously, what’s the difference between pills and booze? Except that one might actually _work_.”

“The difference is that I don’t have to talk to a doctor. I hate doctors.”

“So, you would literally rather drink yourself to death than go to a doctor.” His tone makes it clear that he thinks she’s being a stubborn child.

“Honestly? Yeah, I would!” She snaps angrily. Because really, _at the end of the day it’s my life, isn’t it? And it’s a shitty one but it’s mine, and he thinks he can just waltz into my life and_ —whatever, she’s standing up, she’s done being next to him.

“So, what?” He demands, standing up, too, and towering over her _on purpose_ , the asshole. “I’m supposed to just sit here and watch you tank year after year until you fucking kill yourself? Not happening, Rey. No fucking _way_.”

“Why do you even care?!”

“ _Wh—?_ Are you fucking _serious?_ ” He looks like he’s about to shake her. She takes a step back in case he decides to. “Because you’re my _friend_ , and _I don’t want you to die._ This isn’t rocket science!”

“Oh my God, would you stop catastrophizing? I’ve done this a thousand times, and I’ll probably do it a thousand more, and I haven’t died or killed myself yet. _I’m fine_.”

“SAYS THE GIRL! WHO JUST BLACKED OUT! IN A _MOTHER—FUCKING—SNOW BANK!_ ” His face is inches from hers and her teeth are practically rattling with the volume of his bellowing.

“Well, if it’s so very _stressful_ for _you_ , why don’t you just leave? It’s not like I _asked_ you to be my goddamn _babysitter_!”

These stupid, selfish words are barely out of her mouth and she already wants to hit rewind on them, on the whole stupid conversation. But it’s too late, Ben is already shaking with rage and hurt, breath whooshing through flared nostrils, and then he’s grabbing his jacket off the hook next to the door.

“You know what?” He says, not even bothering to look at her. She thinks she’s going to vomit, and not from the booze. “You’re absolutely right. You’re a grown-ass woman, and if you want to push everybody out of your life so you can kill yourself on your own time, that is _your_ call to make. Who the fuck am I to say anything about it? Just your best _fucking_ friend. See you around, Rey.”

He slams the door on the way out.

A long minute ticks by in the suffocating silence of her apartment, and she just stands there in the middle of the room, tears flowing freely down her face, wondering how she could’ve fucked up so spectacularly in such a short amount of time, and she reiterates to herself: _Yup. Today’s the day he leaves and never comes back._

The thought has barely finished crawling across the bottom of her brain when she flings the door open and shoots out into the hall to chase him down and drag him back and say whatever she has to say to make him stay.

She rounds the corner into the stairwell and slams head long into Ben’s chest as he comes barreling back up the steps.

“ _Oof!_ ” He grunts, and stumbles back down a couple of steps. He’s looking a little wild in the eyes.

 _He was coming back for me, too,_ she thinks dazedly while holding her nose and wondering vaguely if it’s bleeding.

They stare at each other for a minute, and then say “I’m sorry” at the same time.

He tips his head back with a groan, exposing his throat to the harsh fluorescent lights, and heaves a sigh. He reaches out, tugs her into his arms, and squeezes her almost unbearably hard. She hides her face under the flap of his jacket.

“I’m sorry,” she repeats in a whisper. “I am so, so, sorry. I didn’t mean what I said. I wanted to take it back as soon as I said it. I was just—”

He shushes her. “I know. I’m sorry too. And I’m not leaving. I’m not going anywhere. Ever.” He leans his chin onto the top of her head and goes on holding her, and damn if it isn’t the nicest feeling she’s felt in a long, long time.

A thought flutters into her mind. “Where did you sleep?”

“Hm?” He whuffles into her hair.

“Last night. Where did you sleep?”

He pauses. “On the floor.”

 _Ugh, I’m such an asshole._ “Well,” she sniffs (and if she nuzzles into his jacket, then so what, what of it), “If you’re sticking around…I should probably invest in a futon. Or something.”

“Let’s go get one. Right now.”

She turns her head, laughing into the soft crook of his neck, and she feels him go still.

“But,” he continues, swallowing, “You should probably go put some pants on, first.”

“Should I, though?” she doesn’t move. This is the most comfortable she’s been in ages. “Pants are so…pant-like.” He grumbles his assent and pulls her in closer, squeezing her tight into his warmth until she almost can't breathe.

“For the record—” Ben mumbles into neck, and she can hear the sly grin creep into his voice. “Believe me. If we'd had sex last night, you’d _know_ it.”

She tips her head back to glare at him flatly. “Well, no false modesty _there_ , I see,” she snarks.

He shrugs, unrepentant. His eyes are burning through her as his thumbs run mindless circles over her hipbones. Rey swallows heavily.

“I'm gonna go put some pants on,” she says, flushed and breathless. She steps back and turns down the hall. “And then we can go to the store.”

He trails her back into the apartment and closes the door. “You’re taking a shower, too.”

“Oh, I am?” She asks drily. He laughs.

“Full offense, but you smell like the bathroom floor at a Grateful Dead concert.”

Rey cackles as she digs into a laundry basket of clean clothes. She pauses in the bathroom door to glance furtively back over her shoulder. He’s extracting his book from the pile of pots and pans on the counter that had scattered when he chucked it across the room. Biting her lip, she closes the door.

She starts the shower and tugs his shirt over her head, folding it carefully and setting it gently next to the sink. It feels like it’s looking at her as she scrubs shampoo into her scalp. Watching her as she works conditioner through every hangover-induced tangle. Considering her as she towels herself dry and hops awkwardly into a pair of jeans. Observing dispassionately as she throws her hair into a sloppy, over-the-shoulder braid that immediately dampens her t-shirt.

She picks it up to carry out to Ben, then pauses, an unfamiliar feeling creeping over her.

_I don’t want to give it back._

_No_ , she scolds herself immediately, shaking her head and squeezing her eyes shut. _I am not stealing it. I am not going to be That Girl. Besides, Ben loves this shirt. I’ve seen him wear it a million times._

 _So, it’s perfectly broken in_ , a wicked part of her whispers. She shakes the thought away, pressing the shirt to her chest, and prepares herself to let it go.

Then...she drops it into the laundry hamper.

_No harm in washing it before I give it back. It’s the polite thing to do. It’s perfectly fine to borrow it._

“So I’m thinking we should check Craigslist before we try—” Rey glances up from her phone as she steps out of the bathroom, and finds Ben fast asleep on her bed, his book open on his stomach and one arm trailing off the edge of the blankets. She creeps closer, a fond smile tugging at the corner of her mouth, and reaches down to gently brush the hair out of his eyes. He sighs a little in his sleep.

“Well, so much for shopping,” Rey murmurs, and crawls into bed beside him, already pulling up Netflix on her phone.


	3. Chapter 3

When Ben wakes up, the sun has gone down and Rey’s apartment is in shadow, the only light coming from the green-numbered clock on the microwave and the soft glow of the streetlamp outside. He glances over to see Rey curled between him and the wall, fast asleep, her phone propped in front of her face and the _Are you still there?_ message from Netflix on the screen. His mouth quirks as he picks it up, feeling around on the floor for her charger and plugging it in for her.

He’s woken up by her side probably a thousand times, by now. At least a couple times a week they decide on some random thing to binge after work and end up passing out and missing most of the episodes anyway. Only it’s usually at _his_ place, since he has an actual couch and not just a bed squished up against the wall in a shoebox-size apartment.

And it usually isn't after a near-death experience that has left him shaken and terrified--but with a mind strangely clear.

They’ve been friends since college but it’s only been in the past year that they’ve grown truly close. They’d both moved to the same city after graduation and wound up depending on each other to a (probably) unhealthy degree, but Ben wasn’t about to complain. Rey was the first person in his life who took him as he was (read: awkwardly large, obsessive multi-fandom nerd with a wicked temper) and didn’t try to make him be anything else. In return, he took her sometimes-erratic emotions and frequent fits of blue-black melancholy in stride, and never made her feel guilty about it.

Until yesterday. Yesterday was...something else. Something new. A deeper low that he wasn't sure he knew how to handle. But the realization that _he could lose her_ had felt like a much-needed kick in the ass.

Absurdly, a memory from his childhood flickers through his mind: Uncle Chewie scowling at him over a chaotic chessboard, growling "Make your move already, kid."

 _Make your move, Ben,_ he sighs to himself.

Looking at her now in the faint lamp-light, her warm breath tracing over the skin of his shoulder and neck, he wonders how she would feel about waking up next to him all the time, and not just a few days a week.

And maybe, late at night, doing something other than watching TV.

She stirs next to him with a soft groan, snuffling into the heat of his arm with a sigh. Bravely, he reaches out and pushes his fingers through her hair, letting his thumb brush gently over her temple.

“Ben?” She whispers, confused, her sleep-scratchy voice sending a dark pulse down his spine. “Shit…what time is it?”

“I don’t know,” he murmurs. Swallowing heavily, he tentatively lets his fingertips ghost over the nape of her neck and watches, fascinated, as goosebumps erupt in their wake. She stretches a little, pressing her skin into his palm and he feels his heart lift. His confidence stirs a little more, enough that he lets his hand run from her shoulder to her hip in one, firm stroke, tugging her closer. She sighs and curls her hand into his collar sleepily.

“Mmmph. Thirsty,” she mumbles. He jumps a little when she throws a leg over his hips, but then she’s stumbling on the floor next to the bed. She looks down at the thing she tripped over: his book, sitting spine-up where it had fallen from his nerveless hand who-knows-how-many hours ago. She squints at the title in the half-dark.

“Dune?” She says disbelievingly. His lips quirk at her tone. “ _Again?_ Didn’t you just finish reading the full series?”

Ben shrugs, letting his arm relax next to her body and his hand grip her ankle gently, lightly fingering the delicate bones there. “I thought I’d read it again. You know, pick up any details or tidbits I’d missed when I read it last time.”

She laughs. He notes that she doesn’t pull her foot away from his hand. “This is your fourth time through. How many _details_ could there possibly be?”

He shrugs again, his thoughts far, far away from Paul Atreides and the wasteland of Arrakis. His eyes are caught on her fond smile, on the way the streetlamp falls through the blinds and casts her pale skin into tantalizing stripes of light and dark.

“Dork,” she laughs to herself, and moves toward the kitchen to tug open the refrigerator. He swings his legs over the side of the bed with a tired grunt as the light from the fridge door slices across the room.

“You want something? I’ve got water, milk, Coke…”

“I’m good,” he answers absently as he scrubs his hands down the stubble on his face and then up into his hair. “Wait,” he amends, scratching at something itchy in his shirt collar, “You got any orange juice? I’d suck ten dicks for a glass of orange juice, right now.”

Rey leans into the fridge, pulls out a half-empty container of Minute Maid and tosses it to him from across the room. He catches it easily, pops off the lid, and chugs half of it in one go. Rey continues to stand on front of the fridge, her mouth twisting with indecision.

“Actually, orange juice doesn’t sound half bad,” she muses, holding her hands up in the universal gesture for _hey-buddy-I’m-open-pass-me-the-ball_.

Ben scoffs at her, taking another long swig. “Pfft. There’s only a couple sips left. You can fight me for it.”

Ben expected her to roll her eyes and pull out a Coke instead. He did _not_ expect her to slam the fridge door shut and pounce on him with a roar.

“ _Ooomph!!_ ” He erupts as her chest slams into him. Then, holding the jug above her with one freakishly-long arm, pinning her against himself with the other, he laughs giddily at the way she scrabbles helplessly at his forearm.

“ _Give_ it! To _me_!” She snarls, then yelps as he pinches the back of her thigh in retaliation. He pins her to his chest with the other arm as she squirms.

“That’s a hard _no_ , sweetheart,” he grins, then grunts when she throws an elbow into his belly and gives a desperate lurch toward the jug, snatching it between her hands with a victorious _whoop_. But she’s underestimated his grip strength—she yanks and _yanks_ at it in frustration as he just laughs harder into the crook of her neck.

Abruptly, she hunches down and _chomps_ into the meat of his shoulder.

He yelps and grabs her head by the hair, tugging it backwards until the whole length of her tender throat is fully exposed to him, a single, tantalizing inch between her skin and his mouth.

“ _Beeeeeeen,_ ” she whines. “No _faiiir—_ ”

“You know what,” he rumbles under his breath. “You wanna fight dirty then it’s _payback time_ —” and he sinks his teeth into the nape of her neck.

“ _Yeeeep!_ ” Rey’s hands go still against his arm. His other arm curls around her, squeezing her painfully tight against his chest. Her knees relax and settle around his thighs, and suddenly their whole bodies are pressed against each other in the breathless dark.

“Ben…?” She whispers, confused. Ben pulls his teeth away from her skin and mouths at the bite-mark soothingly. He mumbles an inquisitive sound as his lips begin to travel along her jawline.

“Are you sure it’s Dune you’ve been reading and not Bram Stoker?” He can feel the way her thighs clench nervously around his lap, and smiles to himself in secret satisfaction.

“You know I read Stoker every year at _Halloween_ ,” he rumbles, feigning offense. He fists her hair more firmly and tugs her head back even more, drawing a ragged gasp out of her. “ _Not_ Christmas. I thought you knew me better than that.”

“Really?” She asks, her voice breaking. Her hands are clenching and relaxing mindlessly at his shoulders. “Cause you're really bringing some vampire vibes right now. Is it _Twilight_ , then?”

He breaks into a boyish grin, his nose buried in the hollow beneath her ear as he laughs soundlessly.

"Twilight? _Christ_. Never. The Vampire Lestat, however..." Slowly, he brings his teeth against her neck and presses carefully into her carotid artery. She _shudders_. Her neck is going to be covered in bruises tomorrow. He'd never admit it out loud to _any_ one, _ever_ , but deep down he revels in the stamp of ownership.

"Never pegged you for an Anne Rice fan," she points out, her breaths starting to come quick and hard.

"What, just because I usually gravitate to science fiction, that means I can't _also_ enjoy some cryptid homoerotica? Psh. Never pegged _you_ for a _sexist_." 

The throaty laugh that _that_ rattles out her does something wicked to his hard-on. He shifts his hips, his pants feeling excruciatingly tight.

"I just never thought I'd catch you basically LARPing _cryptid homoerotica_ , that's all." She grinds down into him and he squeezes his eyes shut against a burst of stars in his vision.

“Clearly you don't know me at all.” He mouths sloppily around the chunk of skin in his mouth.

Suddenly he feels her tense up against him, and he immediately pulls away. Once they break contact he feels fear and insecurity rush in, and he's terribly afraid that he’s gone too far, that he’s nudged their usual playfulness into something they’re honestly both afraid of. He releases her hair and plants his hand in between her shoulder blades; to his relief, she leans back against it, her body once more relaxing.

“Ben,” she whispers. Her eyes are searching his, flicking over his eyes, his hair, his mouth.

“Yes, Rey,” he whispers back, the tip of his nose just barely bumping into the tip of hers. She swallows.

“I’m still thirsty,” she says, tipping her jaw up, a little bit of defiance in the gesture.

The tiniest of smiles curls at the edges of his mouth. “You have to ask me nicely,” he points out slyly, and watches her swallow.

“ _Please_ ,” she nearly moans, her eyes on his mouth.

“Oh! You’d like some orange juice?” He inquires pleasantly, leaning back and bringing the jug between their bodies, popping the lid off and handing it to her. “Why didn’t you just say so?”

She glares at him, holding eye contact as she brings the container up and guzzles down what’s left of it. She goes on holding his eyes as she slowly screws the lid back on and tosses it over her shoulder to land on the floor with a soft _thunk_.

“You know,” she muses, clearing her throat and casually shifting her legs to bring the heat of her core into contact with the ravenous bulge in his jeans, “You can be a real scoundrel, sometimes.”

“ _Scoundrel?_ ” He laughs boyishly, his eyes crinkling with pleasure. “Mmm. _Scoundrel_. I like the sound of that.”

“Of course you do,” she blinks flatly. But he can hear the gooey smile in her voice plain as day. His courage starts creeping back, and he begins to run his fingertips along her sides. 

“Stop that,” she gasps, quivering a little.

“Stop what?” He asks innocently, leaning in to drop a chaste kiss between her brows.

“Stop _that!_ ” She says again, burying both hands into the sides of his head to do some hair-pulling of her own. She keeping pulling until his neck is arched painfully and his eyes darken, their lids heavy over his blown pupils. “I’m _ticklish_ ,” she growls.

“I’m ticklish, too,” he rasps, looking up at her like he can’t decide if she’s goodness and light itself, or the Grim Reaper come to take his soul. He sees something flicker in her eyes and he asks impulsively, “What are you afraid of?”

That gives her pause, and she blinks down at him, some of the hormone-induced fog lifting for a moment. “Afraid?” She says incredulously.

“You’re trembling,” he points out in a whisper, and gently detaches one of her hands from his hair to bring it up between their faces. It is, in fact, trembling. He begins massaging her palm gently.

Rey swallows and avoids looking at the proof of her anxiety. “I’m not trembling,” she denies, but her voice is hollow. She pulls her other hand away from him and clasps her hands behind her back, like a child trying to hide the evidence of her disobedience. She’s trying to be cute but he can tell she’s hiding a very real fear.

So he tries to make her laugh. He tries to diffuse the tension strung between them, thick as syrup. He tousles her hair playfully. “You _like_ me because I’m a scoundrel,” he teases lightly.

“I happen to like _nice men_ ,” she cocks a brow, but she’s staring at his chest with poorly-disguised hunger. He leans back on his hands, preening a little, putting himself on display for her review.

“I’m Nice Men,” he points out smugly. He still hasn’t made her laugh, and it worries him deeply. Nerves begin to churn beneath his lungs. _Did I push too hard? Doesn’t she feel the same? I **swear** she feels it, too._

She reaches out a hand and rests it gently against his sternum. “You really _are_ Nice Men, Ben Solo,” she whispers. _Oh no, she’s tearing up again. God damn it!!_ “I really _don’t_ deserve you. And you—” she looks over her shoulder at the half-empty bottle of vodka sitting incriminatingly on her counter, and sighs heavily. “ _You_ definitely don’t deserve _this_.” She withdraws her hand and wrings it with the other in front of her belly, her head bowed. He watches the glitter of a single tear drip from the tip of her nose onto the crotch of his jeans.

His face twists into an irritated scowl. “Why don’t you let _me_ be the one to decide what I ‘ _deserve’_ , okay?”

Her head snaps up at his tone, and she glares daggers at him. “I’m just trying to do you a favor here—” she begins crossly, but he sits up abruptly, cutting her off.

“Well, _don’t_ ,” he spits, his famous, scorching temper flaring up with a vengeance. “Don’t do me any fucking favors. I’m a big boy. I don’t _need_ them.” His hands are clenching into fists next her thighs, where she remains perched precariously on his lap.

Anger and hurt war together on her face. “Well okay, _big boy_ , you tell _me_ : what should I do instead?” She snaps, crossing her arms over her chest and looking away at the wall.

“I don’t know, how ‘bout you just follow my fucking _lead?_ ” He growls. He finally releases his fists and wraps his hands around her thighs, squeezing hard enough that she gasps indignantly at the pain.

“Well, _fine!!_ ” She nearly shouts, and throws out an arm out in a _get-on-with-it gesture_. “ _Lead_ on, _Benjamin!_ ”

“Fine!!”

“FINE!”

And then Big Boy Benjamin wraps one meaty hand around the back of her neck, yanks her close, and sinks his teeth into her plush lower lip.


	4. Chapter 4

The _sound_ she makes when he flips her onto her back—something between a sigh and a squeak--sends a shock down the whole length of his body. The electricity of it tingles in his hands, in his belly, in his toes. It sets him on fire.

Her knees come up to cradle his hips and he hisses through his teeth as she pulls him down, closer into the heady heat of her core. His hands are in her hair again, tugging her braid free as he shakes her hair-tie off his fingers impatiently.

“You think—” he nips her earlobe sharply and she gasps, arching into the contact. “You can tell me to just leave you _alone?_ ” he once again fists a hand at the base of her skull, his grip almost cruel, tugging roughly enough to make her eyes water. “That I’ll just—” he leans onto his elbow, dragging his other hand roughly up her shirt to give her breast an unforgiving squeeze. “ _Leave_ you here? Let you suffer all on your own?” He finally manages to yank her shirt up above her breasts and presses a searing kiss between them. His fingers crawl along her bra and tug the fabric aside, almost ripping it. “If that’s what you think, then you don’t know me at all.”

She keens when he drops his mouth to suckle at her nipple, rolling the delicate, dusty-pink bud between his lips and tongue. Her back arches up off the bed, her breath hissing through her lips at the rough treatment of his mouth.

“Say it, Rey.” His voice is a dark murmur thrumming through her skin.

“Say what?” She gasps, her hips writhing against him, her eagerness almost breaking his concentration. But he has to hear her say it out loud.

“Tell me that you _know_.” He runs the edge of his thumb in lazy circles over the taut peak of her nipple, knowing by her strained breathing that the sensation is _just_ shy of too much.

“That I know _what_ , Ben? _Fuck—_ ” her hands are clawing impatiently into the folds of his shirt, scratching painfully over his shoulder blades.

He presses his mouth to the underside of her breast, suddenly nervous and buying time, realizing that he can’t taste her vulnerability without offering his own.

“ _That I love you_ ,” he finally whispers, ducking his head into her sternum to hide his eyes. He sighs. “That I won’t leave you. Not ever. I can’t. You’re... you're a part of me.” He snaps his mouth closed against all the other words threatening to pour out of him. He focuses on her breath, rising and falling under his cheek. Soon her fingers curl into his hair, her nails lightly scratching behind his ears.

“You…” her voice breaks and she swallows. “You—love me?”

He swallows. “I love you, Rey,” he admits heavily, still refusing to meet her eyes, to risk finding the inevitable rejection there. “I have for...a long, _long_ time.”

Suddenly she huffs and cuffs him upside the head. “Well why didn’t you _say_ so, you idiot?” She demands irritably.

His head snaps up to find her eyes wet and her mouth curling up in a weak grin. “Uh,” his mouth dangles open, “ _What?_ ”

“I love you too," she breathes. "You--you're _everything_ , to me. And..." she's laughing, now. "God. I’ve been thirsting on you _forever._ ” She rotates her hips sharply and he’s too weak to resist as she flips them over. He gazes at her, wide-eyed, as she casually tugs her shirt off, tosses it aside, and reaches around her back to unclasp her bra, which is quickly added to the growing pile of clothing next to the bed. Then her fingers set to work on his shirt buttons, plucking them apart in a businesslike fashion.

“ _Ahhh_ ,” she breathes as his skin is finally revealed to her. She runs her hands down in a firm caress from his shoulders to his hips, seeming to relish the feel of him under her hands. Relief starts to flood out the terror thrumming through him. “ _God_ , Ben. If you only knew.”

“So _tell_ me,” he says softly, watching her closely, not wanting to miss a single flicker of expression as it crosses her features.

“Oh, shut up,” she laughs, continuing to run her fingers in languorous strokes over him. “Like you don’t _know_.”

He looks at her blankly.

“Wait—” she pauses with a puzzled frown. “You _don’t_ know? Honestly?”

He shakes his head, mouth slightly ajar. His fingers are drumming anxiously on her thighs. Her bare breasts are hovering over him tantalizingly but he still isn’t sure what to do with that information.

“So all those times you showed up at my place after the gym,” she frowns, confused. “All sweaty. Changing into a fresh shirt in front of me. That wasn’t—calculated?”

Ben shook his head. “I actually felt bad for not taking time to shower before coming over,” he admits, embarrassed. “I would pack extra shirts in my bag so I wouldn’t…repulse you.”

“ _Repulse me_ ,” she laughs like he’s the dumbest man she’s ever laid hands on. “Okay. What about those gray sweats you wear all time?”

He blinks. “My pajama pants?”

“Those ones, yes.”

His eyes flick to the side as though asking some unseen audience for an explanation. “They’re comfortable?”

“Uh huh,” she says, unimpressed. “And the fact that they perfectly highlight your junk is, what, an added bonus? Totally unintentional?”

He looks at her like she’s got two heads. “I’m so confused right now,” he admits, and suddenly he can’t stand it anymore, he’s _got_ to touch her breasts. She breathes out heavily, leaning into his hands as her hips start to grind a mindless, circular rhythm into his body.

“You’re impossible, Ben,” she breathes, resting her hands against his hips to push herself upward against his throbbing cock. He sucks in a ragged breath and bites his lower lip harshly to silence it.

“And what about you?” He demands as he rolls her nipples lazily between his fingers, making her gasp and arch into his touch. “What about when you asked me— _mmph_ —” her fingers have dropped to his fly, pawing desperately at his zipper, but she can't seem to figure it out in her foggy state. “When you asked me to help you with your dress at my parents’ dinner party?”

“Totally calculated,” she admits breathlessly as she finally manages to pop the button on his jeans. The zipper remains out of her comprehension, though. “God, I would’ve sucked you off in the pantry that night if you’d so much as _looked_ at me like you wanted it.”

This information comes as a bit of a blow, since he had _also_ wanted to fuck her senseless in the pantry that night. “Why didn’t you _say_ something?” He all but whines, grasping her wrists in his hands and jerking her forward until her body is pressed against him.

“Why didn’t _you?_ ”

“I didn’t think you’d want—”

“Fuck, just shut up and _kiss me_ already, you fucking—”

His mouth cuts her off. Some dim corner of his brain comments that he’s probably being too sloppy, too rough, too uncoordinated, but Rey doesn’t seem to mind. Her tongue flicks against his hypnotically as her heads stretch over her head to bury themselves in his hair.

“Fuck,” he gasps as her teeth tug at his lips, “Rey—”

“Mm-hmm?”

“How long have you—how _long_ could we have been—” He rolls them over again so that he can grind mindlessly into her intoxicating heat.

“I don’t care,” Rey breathes against his mouth. “We’re here _now_.” Rey wraps her legs around his waist and pulls him in tight before growling in frustration. “Too many goddamned _clothes!_ ”

“You read my mind,” he laughs against her mouth, then pulls away, ignoring her sound of indignation. He shushes her. “Hush. You’ll get what you want, just be patient.” She pouts up at him and he can’t help letting his gaze skip over her skin in delight.

“You are so goddamn beautiful,” he breathes as he shucks his shirt off his shoulders.

“Oh stop,” she says, but she’s avoiding his eyes, and he can tell she’s _preening_ at the praise, so he decides to push a little more:

“You have the prettiest little tits I’ve ever seen.”

She giggles. “Wow, Ben. Romantic.” But he can feel the heat of her blush creeping up her body, so he pushes a little _more_ :

“I bet you’ve got a pretty little cunt to match.” His fingers deftly unbutton her jeans and yanks them down her legs. “I think I’d like to see it. You know, for…scientific purposes.”

“Oh, well, of course,” she breathes, kicking her feet to help rid herself of the offending fabric. “As long as it’s _for science_.”

 _Finally_ , she’s naked underneath him except for a pair of cotton panties. He lets his thumb drag over her wet slit through the cloth, watching her mouth fall open and her head fall back.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, feeling deliciously wicked. He lets his thumb creep underneath the fabric, brushing ever so lightly against her soaked clit. Her gasp is rough and filthy. “For _science_.”

“Ben,” she pants.

“Can I help you?” He inquires casually as his thumb continues to trace light circles over her taut bundle of nerves.

“Ben. _Please_ —”

“Please what?” He knows he’s being cruel, and he’s loving every second of it. After so many years of fantasizing, of imagining, of hiding his desire away, he can't get enough of hearing her beg for him.

“Please, _anything_ , God I don’t even _know_ , just _please_ —”

“Shhhh,” he soothes her. “I’ve got you.” He hooks his fingers around the seams of her panties, tugs them off the ends of her toes, then lays down, settling his head between her thighs. Curiously, he runs two fingers up and down along her slit, savoring her whimper as his fingertips brush lightly over her clit.

“I’ve been dying to see you like this,” he confesses in a whisper, letting his breath ghost over her trembling flesh. He presses feather-light kisses to the insides of her thighs. "I think about it all the time. What you'd feel like, what you'd sound like--"

“Ben, stop being _mean_ , I’m _dying_ over here—” her hand reaches out, fingers trembling as they trace around the shell of his ear. She raises her head and they lock eyes. “ _Please_ ,” she whimpers, her lips quivering. “I’m _dying_ for you.”

“Well then,” he breathes as the thrill of her words courses through him. “Your wish is my command.” He lowers his head and kisses her full on her lower lips.

At the first touch of his tongue, her back arches violently up off the bed, her thighs clenching around his ears. Her taste is salty, the velvet of her skin hypnotic between his lips. Her hips begin to move in a tight rhythm against him, working herself shamelessly against his mouth. He could spend all night here, he thinks to himself distantly. Spend all night tasting her, feeling her body working against him, listening to the sweet sounds falling from her lips.

“Ben,” she whispers. “More, I need _more_ , do you think you could—” She hasn’t even finished speaking when he presses a finger inside of her to massage her inner walls in a slow, easy rhythm that he _knows_ will only frustrate her.

“ _More!_ ” She demands petulantly, and he laughs against her skin before adding a second finger and crooking them inside of her, pushing into a sweet, hidden place that makes her breath escape her in a high-pitched sigh.

“Oh, that’s better,” she whispers, then shrieks as he plants his mouth on her clit and _sucks_ , his fingers driving into her roughly. He releases her and hauls himself up to sit on his haunches, keeping two fingers inside of her and his thumb on her clit. She watches avidly as he reaches down to palm himself through his jeans, then gives up and tugs himself out of his boxers because the fabric has grown unbearably tight. She licks her lips, watching him smear around the drops of pre-come pearling up at the tip before he takes himself in an unforgiving grip.

“ _Love it_ when you get demanding,” he grinds out as he fucks his fist, his hand continuing its unrelenting rhythm inside of her. “Love it when you _beg me_.”

Suddenly her hands are clenching around his wrists, so tight it hurts. He goes still, afraid he’s done something wrong.

“Don’t you fucking _jerk off_ on me, Solo,” she hisses, her eyes snapping hotly. “I swear to _God_ , the first time you come for me, you better be _inside_.”

His face goes slack with shock. “Okay,” he concedes, running his tongue over his lips.

“Don’t get me wrong,” she hastens to add, bringing a hand up to his stricken face and gently stroking his cheek. “I can’t _wait_ to watch you jerk off to me. Another time. I just…” she trails off, seeming to lose her train of thought. “Our first time…”

“I understand,” he answers, reaching up to cover her hand where it rests against her face. “I understand completely.”

“So,” she says shakily, seeming to gather herself back together. “What say we lose those pants, Benjamin?”


End file.
